Blindsight
by ty.soglasna
Summary: In the dark, she could have been anyone at all. A story of silk hair and unrequited passion and the sound of her voice. Fleur/Hermione, oneshot, femslash, rated M for very explicit sexual content, etc.


**Warnings:** Underage (15), masturbation, explicit girl/girl sex, e_mo_tions, some purple-tinged prose that I had not the heart to weed out. Heck, the whole thing is pretty purple :P  
**Note: ** 'Blindsight' is a phenomenon where blind subjects report no visual experience, yet are able to react to their environment _as if _ they could see. I've wanted to use this in a fic ever since I learned about the condition last year in my philosophy of mind class, and I finally think I have something that's sort of worth such a cool title. Maybe. Written for the HP Girls kinks meme, like, forever ago (but just edited now), with the prompt 'anonymous sex and roleplay in a dark/confined space.' Well, I'm almost certain this is not what that was supposed to mean. Many thanks to the lovely Ogis for the beta - especially since it wasn't your cup of tea!  
**Disclaimer:** Characters, etc aren't mine. I'll put them back the way they were as soon as I'm done playing, promise...

...

"Who's there?" The voice sounded a little haughty and a little French and very annoyed at being interrupted. It echoed in the cavernous first-floor coat room and was accompanied by the whisper of another sound, a sound that made the blood rush to Hermione's face when she realized what it must be.

Hermione fingered her straightened hair and looked around the darkened room, curiosity piqued. The dim light from the high windows didn't filter down far, and she couldn't see anything but hollow blackness. That voice, though – she had been right, it had been a Beauxbatons student that Hermione had seen disappear, only a flash of pale silk and hair. How had she even known this place existed? Hermione herself hadn't known until she'd seen mention of it in Hogwarts, a History.

She had never thought of it as an ideal place to sneak away during the middle of a ball and wank in. That was what the shower was for, and one's bed late at night after everyone else was asleep. How could doing _that_ be so urgent? And she hadn't even stopped when Hermione walked in...

"Allo?" The voice still sounded annoyed. The slippery sounds had slowed, but not stopped.

The blood fell from Hermione's cheeks and settled Hermione's groin in a flash of heat. The girl knew someone was there, and she was still -

"It's Fleur," Hermione called, gathering herself. She seized on the first name that came to mind, affecting a French accent. It was a whim, really, a game to play in the dark. How long would she be able to fool the girl? What was it like, to be their ice queen? What could she do, if she was not herself?

"Fleur Delacour?"

"Oui," Hermione whispered, and even that small sound echoed on the hard stone of the walls.

Hermione felt along the wall, away from the strip of light that shone from under the door, toward where she could hear the other person. The wettish sound that had slowed when Hermione had entered started again in earnest.

"What are you doing in here in the dark, all alone?" Hermione asked, as she slowly made her way forward. Sh e already had a pretty good idea of what the girl was doing, and found herself growing more aroused as she drew closer. The _why_ was what she really wanted to know now, and she wanted to hear that voice again.

"Why don't you come and find out, Veela-girl?" the voice taunted, sounding increasingly less peeved, and very much closer. There was a throaty quality in the stranger's voice that hadn't been there before, making the taunt sound more like an invitation. Hermione shivered.

Hermione's trailing fingers reached the turning of the wall – she thought she must be on the opposite side of the room now – and in that brief pause, were grasped by a hand that was warm and disturbingly, suggestively, tacky.

"You came," the husky voice said, right next to her, and the hand pulled her down, till she half-fell, half-crouched in front of the other girl, who must be sprawled against the wall. Hermione didn't resist.

"What is it, Veela-girl? Cat's got your tongue? Or are just afraid to speak without your precious beauty to back you up," she jerked Hermione closer so the next words landed right in her ear. "Because you know your words will be ugly?"

Hermione was shocked by the harshness of the stranger's words, but fell into the role seamlessly, without even a thought of returning to the ball, or her prefect's duties, or herself.

"How dare you presume to speak for me, girl!" Hermione said heatedly, in a low voice. "My 'precious beauty' that you speak of, it is a curse, not a blessing. How do you imagine it must be to walk around all day, every day, attracting those stupid, idiot boys?" It was her turn to lean in to the other girl, who had gone suddenly, strangely, silent. "They do not see me, any more than you have seen me! I might as well have nothing inside my pretty head; it would make no difference to them." The girl beside her inhaled sharply, but Hermione didn't stop. "Do you have any idea how it is to be wanted by everybody, by nobody? " Hermione was breathing hard.

"Yes," murmured the other girl. "I do."

With these words she pulled on Hermione again, and Hermione all but fell onto her, losing the balance of the crouch she had assumed after her first fall. An elbow dug into Hermione's side and it was not a comfortable position. But then the girl quickly shifted to accomodate Hermione's weight, and Hermione was all but lying between her legs, their upper bodies pressed together. They were so close so that Hermione could feel that the girl was trembling.

Hermione could feel everything else, too – the creamy satin of the girl's dress robes, the hard warmth of her bare legs pressing into Hermione's sides, the cool sweat collected on her throat, the hard points of her nipples under the thin material of her robes, the way her fingers felt when she ran them so lightly down Hermione's spine...

Hermione shivered, and her breath caught.

It caught again when the girl spoke. "I do know, Fl eur Delacour, but I know too it is not true. It is not nobody who wants you. _I_ want you. And I am no idiot boy."

And Hermione's hand was seized and plunged down, so fast that she barely registered the layers of fabric or the smooth skin of a thigh before her palm was filled with the very hot, very moist evidence of the girl's arousal. "See?" she whispered in Hermione's ear, and even her whisper was husky with desire.

"Who are you?" asked Hermione hotly. "If you think I am someone who would sleep with any stranger who– who _desired my body_, then you do not know me at all." But she didn't fight against the pressure that was holding her hand in place.

"I am nobody." The girl's breath stirred Hermione's fringe. "I have watched you from far off. You have not seen me, but I have seen you, _Fleur_." There was a strange emphasis on the name.

Hermione couldn't help it; she started moving her hand. It wasn't something bookish, rule-abiding, fifteen-year-old Hermione Granger would have done, but then again, she was not Hermione Granger right now.

"Then tell me what you have seen, little nobody," she whispered.

The girl hissed through her teeth. "Why bother? I am seeing you right now, Veela-girl, and that  
is all you want. For someone to see past your pretty little face and your Veela blood and want _you, _just you."

"And how would you know that?" Hermione was finding it hard to muster the concentration to keep disguising her voice.

"Because," and the girl was nibbling Hermione's neck as she spoke, impatiently, needily, "No one on earth knows you like I do."

"Show me, then." The last word came out as a gasp as the body beneath Hermione surged with a surprising strength and flipped her so that she was the one propped up against the wall, her arms pinned on either side of her head.

"It would be my pleasure," the other girl hissed, her accent so thick now that Hermione only registered the words' meaning a second later. And then it didn't matter anyway, because the girl was slanting her hot mouth against Hermione's own, kissing her forcefully and without preamble.

It was not Hermione's first kiss, but it was like no other she had received.

It was a kiss like liquid fire, and it ignited every one of Hermione's nerves, and settled in the crux of her legs like a burning coal. It was as if the girl were pouring out every one of her secret fears and dreamings into the crucible of Hermione's mouth, and Hermione wondered for a second if she was doing the world some great injustice by not _really_ being Fleur Delacour, in this place and for this lover. The passion with which the other girl touched her was almost holy in its intensity. But she was too far gone to wonder for more than a second.

Hermione's arms were released, and suddenly hands were everywhere, pushing straps off shoulders, rucking skirts up around sweaty waists, kneading breasts, grabbing shoulders and hips. Hermione explored the girl's body with her fingertips, discovering high cheekbones and a long, muscled back, soft, cool stomach, rediscovering those hard nipples, the curve of a breast, legs that were finely muscled on the outside and silky soft where they brushed her hips.

The stone was cold against Hermione's bare thighs and back, but the French girl was warm and occasionally wet where she touched Hermione, and if Hermione had paused to take it all in, she was sure she would have been overwhelmed by the sheer amount of bare skin against her body. If this was sex, then she finally realized what other people saw in it.

Even with the velvety darkness pressing against her eyes, Hermione's senses were overwhelmed with her unseen lover – the fall of her hair against Hermione's naked shoulders and chest sent shivers through her whole body, and the sound of her heavy breathing, full of tiny grunts and whines and sighs, touched something deep.

And her hands, and her mouth, they were everywhere. She made love to Hermione desperately, reverently, as though she had but this one chance to pour out every feeling she had ever known. Hermione felt like she had fallen into something much larger than herself; it was like the tides, or home, it lit Hermione from within.

Hermione's only grounding point was the woman's throbbing heat, which she found again without being guided. Hermione explored the drenched folds thoroughly, focusing all her attention on that one point lest she lose herself. She took care to note what earned more of those half-articulated French words, what the woman's sex felt like around and between and beneath her fingers. So similar to her own, and yet so different, and she clung to these scraps of knowlege lest the pleasure that was building surged and swept her away. It was so close, yet she needed to be _here_ for this...

The other girl's frantic motions stilled as her climax drew near, and she clutched at Hermione like one who was drowning. Her hold was fierce, like she was trying to press Hermione into herself and keep her forever, and when she cried out, it was more a sob than anything else.

"I need you so much," she whispered, and Hermione felt a hot tear fall and slide down her shoulder. Hermione could only hold her tighter.

Hermione wished she could have been able to see the girl's face, because she held on for only a few seconds longer, and then suddenly she was fighting Hermione's arms off, standing up and out of reach. Hermione could hear the rustle of clothing being put to rights.

"You will never speak of this," the girl proclaimed, and suddenly all the haughtiness was back in her voice, the cracked whisper of just a second ago erased as though it had never been.

Hermione shook her head, but realized that the other girl couldn't see her. "I wouldn't speak of this," she said, and meant to say more, but her companion had already whirled and headed out across the open floor to the entrance, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing in the empty space.

Hermione thought she might have felt a flying tear fall on her face as the girl turned, but in the dark, she couldn't tell.

...

It was two weeks later when Hermione, back to her ordinary curly-haired bookishness, heard that voice again. Or rather, it was a laugh, but it sounded enough like that velvety voice from the coat room to make her look around. And when she did, Ron followed her gaze and went all gooey-eyed, so it was hardly the time to say anything. Fleur might have caught her eye, but of course that didn't mean anything. For all the seeing that had gone on, there had been no eye contact. It didn't stop Hermione's heart from  
jumping as she hustled a delirious Ron away, though. _Fleur, it had been Fleur that night, and she, Hermione, she had been -_

It was only twelve hours later when Fleur looked up from her breakfast plate and met Hermione's eyes across the hall, smiling at the small note the school owl had just delivered. It was too far away to tell, but Hermione thought she saw Fleur's eyes shining more than usual, and she didn't look sad.

It was less than an hour later that Fleur sidelined Hermione in the hall, breathing throatily into her ear in that voice that had made Hermione melt into her sheets every night since the ball.

"You are 'ermione?"

"Yes," said Hermione though Fleur must have already figured it out. She traced Fleur's cheekbone. It felt exactly as it had that night, only drier. "You're Fleur." She smiled.

Fleur leaned into the touch. "Do you want to come upstairs with me?"

It was remarkable how little one could care about missing class, in the face of an invitation like that.

"Very much," said Hermione. "Will your dorm be empty now?"

Fleur rolled her eyes and smirked prettily, a gesture Hermione found herself missing never having seen before. "_Mais oui_. They are all Ravenclaws, aren't they?"

The second time Fleur kissed Hermione, dust motes danced around their heads and the bright morning light poured through  
Fleur's window, falling on the blue-draped beds.

The press of lips, the clash of tongues – it was just as ravenous, just as passionate as before, and Hermione felt herself teetering on the edge of surrender with only a few touches. But she hauled herself back, and put a finger on Fleur's reddened lips.

"Shh, slow down, slow down. I'm not going anywhere." She wasn't sure which one she was talking to.

Fleur's bright blue eyes lifted to stare into Hermione's brown ones, dangerously unguarded. Hermione felt a tremendous responsibility settle upon her, and at the same time, knew that if she could keep only one moment, this would be the one.

"But how would I know?"

"Because -" They were whispering now. Hermione pulled her into a tight embrace, trying to press everything she meant into the other girl's skin.

"Because I've seen you. I know you, I _love_ you." Hermione pressed a kiss into Fleur's temple. "I couldn't find that again if I searched for a thousand lifetimes." Hermione's rational side told her that, yes, given a _thousand lifetimes_, she probably could forge another connection. Perhaps even one as deep, and as sudden. But she didn't want to.

Fleur smiled tremulously, eyes blinking, not used to spending this much time in the open. "Will you show me?"

Hermione smiled back, and stroked the hair back from Fleur's face. "Yes, I'll show you. I'll show you again and again." She kissed the corner of Fleur's mouth, and the corner between her nose and her cheek, and the hollow next to her ear. "Close your eyes," she feather-kissed a fluttering eyelid. "See." It was a whisper almost lost in the rustle of a lace being slowly drawn, a robe slipping down over a shoulder.

Fleur's eyelids, the last sentinels, came to rest, and Fleur exhaled.

And then, she saw.

_fin_


End file.
